Queen Sila, Act 1
Copyright© 2025 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 3
Brian found himself fascinated by the box. He was unable to look away. It was not particularly big. It was roughly two feet across and a foot deep, however, it held his attention with an inexplicable pull. Perched precariously in the farthest corner of the locker, balanced atop a pile of other boxes, it seemed intentionally placed either to be overlooked or safeguarded. His heart raced.
The rest of the locker now seemed like clutter, insignificant in comparison. That box was the sole focus of his attention. He advanced forward. Each step deeper into the storage locker. The air grew denser, heavier. It was not merely the musty smell of old storage. A faint warmth lingered, carrying a sweet, incense like scent that persisted from years past. Brian extended his arm. He was tall enough to grasp it, his fingertips easily brushing the lid.
The wood was unnaturally smooth. Not just polished, but perfect. Time should have left scratches, chips, something. But it had not. His fingertips tingled on contact, as if a faint electric buzz pulsed beneath the surface. Brian muttered under his breath, more to steady himself than anything. With one hand braced against the box beneath, he gripped the wooden box with both hands and pulled. It resisted for a split second, as if it did not want to leave. It then came loose with a sudden, heavy thud into his arms.
Brian grunted under the unexpected weight. It felt dense. Far heavier than it should for its size, like the wood had been carved from stone or something heavy inside was waiting. He set it down on a nearby crate, stepping back for a moment to look at it properly. The box was beautiful. The wood was dark, almost black, carved with intricate looping patterns that seemed to twist if he stared too long. The patterns appeared to be more than decoration, they were ancient symbols, a form of writing. The symbols seem to come alive and move. Brian shook his head, questioning whether he was perceiving reality accurately or experiencing a figment of his imagination.
Brian wanted to open the box right then and there. His hands hovered over the box. His fingers itched to pry it open and see what was inside. Whatever it was, he sensed its importance and value beyond explanation. Then something. Not a noise, but a sensation, a whisper, coming from somewhere other than the storage unit. The voice was inside his head. Soft, low, almost soothing. Not here. The words were not spoken, but they were swimming in his head, clear as day.
“Not yet. Wait. Take me somewhere safe.” The voice whispered.
Brian froze, his hand resting on the box. His heart throbbed. The sweet voice made his skin crawl. The voice it did not feel hostile. It felt guiding. Protective. He swallowed hard and glanced toward the entrance. Mike had not returned yet. Good. His stomach knotted. Why did he feel like this box was meant only for him? Brian sucked in an unsteady breath. He pulled the box closer to his chest.
“Mine,” he muttered under his breath.
No way was Mike seeing this. No way was anyone seeing this. Brian glanced outside the storage unit. Mike was still gone, off renting the box truck. Good. Clutching the box like it might slip away, Brian strode out of the unit. The sunlight hit him like a furnace, but his focus was tunneled. Every step to the Buick felt like a mile. His eyes flickered, scanning for onlookers. He popped the trunk. The trunk was a disaster, as always. Much of his previous thrift haul remained unsold. Brian crouched and gently set the box inside. It looked out of place. The box was too important to be surrounded by his clutter. He needed to hide it.
He climbed into the back seat and dug under a pile of laundry. He pulled out a faded, frayed bath towel. He wrapped the box tightly, covering every inch of its carved surface. He then buried it deep under the mess in his trunk. He put it on top of it boxes, tools, and anything else he could find. By the time he was done, it looked like just another piece of worthless junk. Brian lowered the trunk lid slowly, pressing it closed until it clicked. He stood there for a moment, staring at the car, palms sweating.
“Safe.” He muttered to himself, though his chest was still pounding.
“Perfect.” The word was not his thought. It was not his voice. It was soft and feminine voice. A whisper that was smooth as silk. It curled in his ear. Brian froze and held his breath. He spun around. Ther was nothing. No one.
“Who?” he started to say, but the words died in his throat.
His skin prickled, goosebumps rising in the desert heat. And then it was gone. He exhaled slowly. Without another glance, he wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt. He walked calmly back toward the storage lockers. By the time Mike pulled into the lot with the rental truck, Brian was casually going through more boxes. But inside, his heart was still pounding.
Brian dug through a stack of cardboard boxes, his hands moving automatically. Though his mind was not really in it. He was sweating through his shirt, breathing in the familiar combination of dust, mildew, and the hot Arizona air. Every box he cracked open smelled like an attic that had not been touched in years. Normally, he would savor this process. He enjoyed unearthing the forgotten lives one item at a time. But now, he could not focus. The box in his trunk.
The box was all he could think about. That wrapped, ancient looking thing he had tucked into his trunk like contraband. He could still feel it against his skin, even though it was not there anymore. His finger throbbed faintly where the amulet had pricked him. A low rumble cut through the silence, growing louder. He glanced up just in time to see a rental box truck rattle through the chain link gates, dust kicking up behind it. Mike leaned half out the driver’s window, grinning like a kid who just won big at a casino. He parked sloppily in front of the units. He jumped out and slammed the door behind him.
“Hell yes!” Mike said.
Mike clapped his hands together and smiled as he walked toward Brian.
“Dude, we’re going to make a killing. I can feel it. I bet at least two more of these lockers have really valuable stuff. You ready for this?” Mike said.
His words barely registered. Brian nodded vaguely, his hands still buried in a box full of yellow photo albums. Mike kept talking about flipping the tools they found, about splitting the profits, about maybe keeping one of the dirt bikes for himself. It sounded distant, muffled, like Mike was talking underwater.
“Leave it, you’ve already found what matters.” The soft voice coiled in his mind.
The voice was barely louder than a breath. Brian paused abruptly. It was like someone leaning over his shoulder, whispering directly into his ear.
“Go home and open me. See what I have for you.” The voice whispered.
Brian swallowed hard. Mike was still rambling about the logistics of selling everything. Brian’s chest tightened. He was not even sure why. It felt like the longer he stayed here, the more wrong it felt. Like wasting time when something precious was waiting for him. He shoved the photo albums back into the box and wiped his palms on his shorts. He was jittery, wired, like a kid on Christmas morning who had just been told he had to wait to open his presents.
“Hey, you listening? I said let’s start on the fourth unit after this. I’ve got a good feeling.” Mike said.
Mike nudged Brian with an elbow. Brian forced a thin smile.
“Yeah. Sure.” Brian said.
But inside, he was screaming at himself. Hurry up. Just get this over with. Get home and open the box. That was all that mattered now.
By the time they were done, night had arrived. The last box clattered into place. Brian leaned against the truck’s bumper. He panted loudly. His shirt clung to him. It was damp with sweat and streaked with dust. The air had cooled, but the heat of the day still clung to the ground. The heat raised in waves off the asphalt. Overhead, a thin slice of moon hung between power lines, and the only light came from the buzzing fluorescent fixtures above the units. Half of them were flickering like they were ready to die. Mike dragged down the final rollup door. It slammed shut with a hollow clang that echoed in the night.
“That’s it. All six lockers. Loaded and done. Hell of a score today.” Mike said.
His voice was carrying in the still air. Brian nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. He could not stop thinking about the box in his trunk. The one wrapped in ancient cloth that felt too much like skin. It weighed on his thoughts more than the hours of labor, more than the dirt under his fingernails or the ache in his lower back. Every breath felt like it brought him closer to needing to open it. Mike clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on. Let’s get something to eat. We’ll figure out how to split all this before we get home.” Mike said.
Brian hesitated, glancing toward his car. He wanted to go home now. To get the thing out of his trunk, to open it.
“Ok.” Brian muttered.
The two vehicles rumbled out of the lot. The rental truck in front with Brian’s dented Buick trailing close behind. The road ahead was empty and black. It was broken only by the occasional glow of a gas station or a lone streetlamp. Mike turned into a diner about ten miles out. It was a small, roadside place with a flickering neon sign that read “Rita’s.” The parking lot was nearly empty, lit by a single buzzing light pole.
Inside, the restaurant felt like a time capsule. It had checkered floors, wood paneled walls, and vinyl booths that had seen better decades. A jukebox hummed faintly in the corner, though no one was using it. They slid into a booth by the window. The glass was so smudged it blurred the outside world, but Brian could still make out the faint shape of his Buick in the lot. Mike grabbed a menu.
A few minutes after they slid into the booth, the waitress waddled over. She was a heavyset woman in her late fifties with wiry gray hair coiled into a loose bun. Her uniform, once white, had long since yellowed at the edges, and a name tag that read “MARGE” was pinned crookedly to her chest. Her face wore the kind of smile that did not reach her eyes. The kind servers wear when they have been doing this too long. As she neared, her nostrils flared just slightly. She did not say anything about it, but it was clear she could smell foul odor coming from the two men and was repulsed. Still, she kept up the act.
“Evening fellas,” she said in a scratchy smoker’s voice.
She flipped open her notepad.
“You look like you’ve been workin’ hard. What can I get ya?” She said.
Mike smiled brightly.
“Steak. Medium rare. Baked potato. And a big ol’ Coke. Actually, make that two Cokes. Day like today, I think we earned it.” Mike said.
He stretched his arms behind his head, looking satisfied. Marge scribbled without looking at him.
“You want the twelve ounce or the sixteen?” Marge asked.
“Sixteen. Goin’ big tonight.” Mike said.
“Figures,” she muttered.
She then turned to Brian.
“And for you, hon?” She said.
Brian didn’t even look at the menu.
“Double burger. Everything on it. And a Coke.” Brian said.
She jotted that down.
“Fries with that?” She said.
“Yeah. Fries too.” Brian said.
“Alright. I’ll get that started for ya.” She said.
She shuffled off toward the kitchen. Her shoes squeaked on the checkered tile. Mike leaned back against the booth, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Nothing like a good steak after a big score,” he said.
As the waitress disappeared through the swinging doors, the hollow clatter of plates and the hum of an overworked fryer filled the silence she left behind. Mike immediately leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes alive with excitement.
“Man, Brian, can you believe what we pulled today? Those tools alone easily five, maybe ten grand if we find the right buyers. And that dirt bike? Even with a little rust, we could flip it for a couple of thousand easily. Hell, I might keep it. Haven’t ridden in years, but damn, it felt good just sitting on that thing.” Mike said.
He grinned wide, the kind of grin he got when the grind felt worth it.
“And the bikes? Even those old Schwinn’s go for hundreds now. That guy was not just some random pack rat, he had taste. Half of this stuff is vintage gold. You saw those Mego dolls? In mint condition? We hit the jackpot, man. Absolute jackpot.” Mike said.
Mike did not waste a second. He rubbed his hands together like a kid unwrapping Christmas gifts.
“Alright, so, let’s talk splits. Those tools? We’ll sell ‘em as a bundle. We will get more bang that way. We’ll go halves on that. But the dirt bike? Man, I might call dibs on that one. She needs some love, sure, but nothing I cannot handle. You don’t mind, do you?”
Brian shrugged, his face neutral.
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